


Paramour by Post

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agender Castiel, Alternate Universe - Historical, Baker Dean, Beekeeper Castiel, Bisexual Dean, Blind Castiel, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Gender Identity, Historical Aesthetic, Historical Inaccuracy, Illustrated, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Binary Castiel, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Pen Pals, Romance, Royal Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, garden sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: After a mix-up with the evening post, Dean begins exchanging regular correspondence (and delicious baked goods) with a stranger, who quickly becomes a friend. Castiel believes Dean is a woman. Dean doesn't know if Cas is a man, a woman, or an especially rare creature... and yet somehow he doesn't really mind. He's gone and fallen hopelessly in love. As far as he can tell, the feeling is mutual. But will all the fantasies hold up to reality, once they finally decide to meet?





	1. Send More Donuts

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Dean's sexual fantasies imagining Cas with different gender presentations!! Also Dean accidentally catfishes Cas through experimental gender-related self-expression?? (i.e. Dean realises Cas assumes he's a woman, then doesn't correct the misunderstanding because he's really enjoying his chick-flick moments. And other, queerer reasons.)  
>  And (spoilers!) Dean and Charlie technically cheat on each other, except everyone turns out to be queer and fine with it. (There's no romantic or sexual Dean/Charlie in this fic, btw. Business only.)
> 
> Thank you to Libby for the betaing, and my sister Amara for the betaing and beekeeping knowledge!! ♥  
>  **Note:** Beekeeping information in this fic is too advanced to be called historically accurate, and not accurate enough to be considered correct nowadays. But it's all information people have previously 'discovered' about bees, only to be proven wrong later. (Someone very lovely made some corrections in the comments of Chapter 2, if you're interested~)

   
   


A half-baked donut hit the wall tiles with a _splop_.

The donut remained stuck for a moment, then folded down on itself, and slumped into a mushy, doughy pile on the workbench.

Dean seethed, fingers clawed around his cheeks. “That. Is. _It_ ,” he said aloud, more to himself than the other people in his peripheral vision. “I am _not_ working like this.” He let his hands drop, shaking his head. Reaching up, he took off his white chef’s hat, and handed it to his brother. “Sammy, here. Take this.”

Sam startled. “Wait— You’re not quitting—?”

“What? _Hell_ no.” Dean had a spark of fury in his eyes. “I’m going to _write to the company_. I’m going to _tell_ them, in words, how disgusted I am with the quality of their flour products, and dammit, Sam, I am going to _post_ it.”

Sam breathed out in relief. “Okay. Yeah. You— You do that.” He nodded quickly.

Dean rolled up his sleeves. “Now,” he said crisply, “Someone get me the address.”

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

Castiel entered his library and shed his snow-flecked beekeeper’s coat, holding it out to his side with a stretched arm. As he walked forward, he waved it, hoping it would catch on something, and when it did – a chair – he let it fall.

With a sigh, he welcomed the warmth of the inside air upon his cold cheeks. He found his desk below the window, and pulled out his armchair to sit.

In his hand, he held a letter delivered while he’d been outside, checking his bees were warm enough. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling the smell of the envelope.

Hmm. Sweet! How unusual.

With a thumb, he opened up the envelope, fumbling inside until he pulled out the folded paper.

The aroma immediately overwhelmed him. “Oh,” he whispered, as shocks of lightning struck him in the heart, in the palms of his hands, sending prickles down his back and through his chest.

Sugar. Sweet, _sweet_ perfume.

“Oh— _Oh_ ,” he breathed again, grasping the letter to his face, breathing in deeply. The air gushed out through his mouth, but he quickly inhaled again. The scent brought tears to his eyes, and he found himself trembling, a weak smile caught on his lips.

Blinking through his tears, he scoured the page for something to read.

The handwriting seemed blocky, not the delicate cursive swirls he was accustomed to trying to decipher. He breathed easily now, sinking back into his chair, pulling the letter close, settling down to enjoy whatever message accompanied such a splendid perfume.

_To whom it may concern_   
_(And I assure you, sir or madam, it should concern you a GREAT DEAL):_

_As a long term customer of Oregon Miller flour products, I am appalled to inform you that THIS, sir or madam, is the THIRD bag of disappointment I have purchased from your company. In ONE WEEK. My flans will not set. My donuts fall to grit in the mouth, if they even bake through. The dust these bags emit are not the happy clouds of white that I grew up breathing in. These smell foul. I refuse to go on using your products if something is not done about this issue._

_Yours sincerely (and very unhappily),_   
_D. Winchester_   
_Winchester Family Bakery_   
_16th Street_   
_Portland, Oregon_

Castiel shook his head. This letter wasn’t intended for him.

But, somehow, a thread of excitement tugging in his heart made him feel that it was, in fact, very much _meant_ for him.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

“Dean!”

Dean turned away from the oven, sliding a hot tray of pastries onto the dense wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. “Yeah?” He glanced up at the newcomer, who stood next to him, her pudgy shoulders hogging a sunbeam. “What’s up, Donna?”

A bright, encouraging smile had found its eternal place on Donna’s round face, and its brightness doubled as Dean acknowledged her. “A letter came for you today, don’t’cha know,” she told him, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “This mornin’.”

“Awesome,” Dean frowned, checking over the pastries. Thank God pastries came out all right, since they were half butter. Gritty flour didn’t seem to affect their quality too badly.

“You... don’t sound thrilled,” Donna said. “You usually love getting mail. Our dough may not be rising right, but _I_ hereby raise an eyebrow.”

Dean snorted, managing to smile. “The letter’s from the flour company. I lodged a complaint.”

“Ohhhh.” Realisation dawned on Donna’s face, the second eyebrow joining the first. “Gotcha.”

“Yeah.” Dean dusted off his hands, then looked around for the letter. “So. Where is it?”

Donna dug around in her apron pocket, then handed over a lilac envelope. It flashed gold in the sunlight.

“That’s weird,” Dean said, taking the letter. He turned it over, lips parting. “That’s _really_ weird. Who writes on purple paper?”

“Magic flour-company fairies?”

Dean smirked, but shook his head. “Maybe it’s a personal note.”

“Ooh,” Donna chirped, suddenly looking twice as interested. “You made a friend?”

“What? No,” Dean said, confused. “Listen, you take over here. I’ll go check this out, and I’ll come back when I’m done.”

“On it, Cook,” Donna said, saluting Dean. “Tell your new friend I said hi.”

Rolling his eyes and smiling, Dean left the kitchen, turned into the hallway, and climbed the wooden staircase to his bedroom. The Winchester bakery had once been a barn, and remained a dusty, sunny place. Even on the second floor, the dust was not dust, but flour.

When he reached his bedroom, Dean tossed aside his apron, all his attention on the mysterious purple letter as he went to sit on his bed, where the light from the window was the best for reading.

The side of the mattress compressed under his weight. Turning the letter the right way up, Dean began to read.

_To D. Winchester,_

_My name is Castiel. I live very close to the Oregon Miller flour factory, and your letter was delivered to me by mistake in the last evening post. I live at number 27, the factory is number 21._

“Oh, shoot,” Dean muttered. He read on.

_It is a common mistake, and I do receive plenty of messages intended for them. As a point of future reference, stranger, I recommend adding the company name to the envelope, as ‘To whom it may concern’ could mean anyone from my housekeeper to myself. As it happened, the letter found its way to my desk. It will now be delivered to its rightful destination by hand, along with a strong word or two from my housekeeper herself, who says she has had the same issue with the flour._

_Business aside..._

_This might seem forward, or perhaps even impetuous, but I feel I must say something. Your letter carried a scent which struck incredible feeling into my heart, something I can’t place. I’m perhaps ashamed to admit how much it affected me. But it was truly remarkable. Please tell me what brand of perfume touched the paper. Once your letter had been passed on, I fear I will never breathe the sweetness of the envelope again. I know I sound a fool, but it genuinely brought colour to my dark world, just for a moment._

_I would be honoured if you were to write again, D._

_Castiel Örvar_   
_Örvar Estate_   
_Portland, Oregon_

Dean lay back on his bed, grinning at the letter. He laughed to himself, covering his eyes with a hand. “Perfume,” he muttered. “Jeez.”

He sat up, still wearing a wide smile. Eyes cast to the desk he and his brother shared, he decided to write back immediately. He got up, and reached for his pen and the bottle of ink.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_To Castiel Örvar,_

_Please, for all that is good in this world, call me Dean. My full name is Deanna Winchester. I was named after my grandmother, and I hate my given name with every fibre of my being. I use my first initial or my nickname whenever I can help it._

_My younger brother got the better deal: Sam, after Samuel. Of course I got the soft name, and the softer job, baking pies and truffles while Sam and a handful of my staff (friends, really) all get to stoke the kilns and tend to my horse. I love my horse more than nearly anything in this world, but I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with her._

_Speaking of names, yours is unusual. Do you mind me asking what it means?_

_I’ll admit, I laughed when you mentioned perfume. There’s no perfume. What you’re smelling and swooning over is nothing more delicate than donut jelly. It’s raspberry flavour. I’ll sent a box of my best along with this letter, and I hope they reach you well-dusted and unsquashed. I’ll have to use our precious backup flour so they’ll come out right. But don’t go expecting any more than that, pal. One-day parcel delivery doesn’t come cheap, even if it’s just trotting across town. My brother and I don’t have a minute to spare to deliver things ourselves, since our shifts run from two-thirty in the morning to eight or nine at night._

_Let me know how the donuts find you._

_Dean._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

OREGON POSTAL SERVICE | TELEGRAM

DEAN.

DONUTS DELICIOUS. WILL PAY FOR DAILY DELIVERY COST. PREPARE MORE BAKED GOODS PLEASE.

CASTIEL ÖRVAR

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

“ _Again_?” Donna squeaked, seeing Dean enter the kitchen with a purple note in hand.

Dean pulled a face, trying to wave Donna’s awed mutterings into silence. But it was too late – Billie the horse groomer had overheard too.

“What’s this about?” Billie asked, her dark, waistcoated figure glowing red-bronze as she stepped into the same sunbeam Dean and Donna shared. Her curly black hair suddenly looked like it was on fire. She crammed her horses’ tack under one arm to secure it, settling in for a conversation. “My-my, Dean, you’ve gone pink.”

“He has a _friend_ ,” Donna said cheerfully, folding her arms. “Don’t you, Dean.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean said, trying to hide the purple letter. “It’s just— Business.” He shrugged, a second delayed. “Nothin’ personal. Y’know.”

Billie took a deep breath, then hummed a note. “Is this the same so-and-so who sent you a _telegram_ at nine o’clock at night?”

“One and the same,” Donna said gleefully. “Whoever they are, they must be rich, huh. Forking out for an instant message like that.”

“No,” Dean lied, knowing the women before him would see right through it. “No, it was just an emergency.”

“An emergency baking compliment?” Billie said with a smirk. “Sounds like you have a _secret admirer_.”

“Oofta,” Donna said, with an overacted sigh. “What _ever_ will Charlie say?”

She shared a knowing look with Billie – then as a pair, they turned back to Dean.

Dean forced a smile and backed away. “Maybe I should _read_ the letter before you all jump to conclusions, how about that,” he uttered, walking backwards out of the kitchen. Once out of sight, he hurried to his room, shut the door, and sat down to read.

More paper money slid from the envelope than Dean had ever seen in his life, at least all at once. He bit his lip, trying to ignore the funny flutters in his stomach as he turned over the accompanying letter.

_Dean,_

Dean already felt delight soaring in his heart. Castiel wrote his name so beautifully. Quickly schooling away his smile, Dean put on a serious face and tried to read on.

_Apologies for the telegram. I sent it a few minutes prior to writing this letter, I was overwhelmed and felt you needed immediate feedback. Enclosed is enough money for a week’s worth of postal deliveries. I don’t mind what you send, just send your best._

Dean chuckled. He dropped the letter to his lap and set his fingertips behind his neck, needing a moment to breathe. He ran his hands up over his head, then covered his face, grinning into his palms.

He wanted to feel silly for reacting like that. Yet, it only felt good.

Nobody was looking. He let himself smile. Then he reached for the letter again, and read on.

_In answer to your question, Dean, my surname is an Icelandic-Old Norse name meaning ‘arrows’. In my family in particular, going back a few generations, there’s a story about a farmhand who remained unmarried late in his life. I never remember his first name. There’s a long story attached to the Örvar surname, but I’ll save that for another time. Just know that the name is symbolic of good luck._

_As of yet, I have no opinion on whether my family has better luck in love than others. We are by no means_ down _on our luck; our fortune has survived thus far, through means of investment in good business._

_Personally I think I’ve been dealt an equal share of good and bad, in the sense that I am surrounded by beautiful things and a great city, but have no means to appreciate it fully. Perhaps because of this, I feel drawn to you, Dean. You feel trapped in your kitchen, while your brother and your friends see more of the world. I relate so deeply to that struggle._

Dean touched his curled fist to his lower lip, pondering. Somehow, apparently without effort, Castiel had found the words for a feeling Dean had carried with him for years, certain it was unimportant, not realising until this very _moment_ why he couldn’t feel as happy as he should. He had a paying job, he was good at it, he was surrounded by friends, but he felt _trapped_ by it. His world had been made small by his duties.

Gulping down the lump in his throat, Dean relaxed, feeling as though the letter in his hands offered him good company. He was ready to read more.

_Please, don’t ever think there’s something wrong with being soft. Your feminine name is still beautiful and, like your surname, it bears the strength of your family’s successful past. Your gentle occupation is a great asset of yours. I’ve never tasted anything so plump and perfect as the donuts you sent me._

_Women are often soft creatures, but so are cats. And I’m sure you’ve seen a cat tear an opponent apart when the moment takes it._

_Write back soon._

_Castiel._

Dean sat in silence for a number of minutes. Just... staring at Castiel’s words... holding them in his mind, feeling their weight.

He felt like he’d been hugged. Tightly, for a long time.

God, he’d needed that. More badly than he’d realised. There were always so many worries collecting in his mind, and he felt too afraid to share them, since all his friends and family were work colleagues, and the stability of their bakery business was more important than soothing his chaotic thoughts. He’d never been able to risk talking about his feelings. He could accept hugs, but could never fully lift his burdens.

It seemed clear now: Dean didn’t simply have an admirer. He had someone he could really talk to.

A... friend.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**


	2. Cupid's Little Worker Bee

_To Castiel,_

_Do you count how many letters we send? I have twenty-one at my end, and I think if you still had my first letter rather than passing it on to the flour company, you’d have twenty-two, right? So we have the same amount. I suppose it’s not actually important. I’ve just enjoyed collecting your messages, and I keep a box under my bed full of purple envelopes._

_I only mention it because Sam was talking today, firstly about how he wants to be head baker someday, and how he can only really imagine being head baker if I were to die in a fire. Obviously he was joking about it, but we got to discussing what we’d save first in a fire. I said I’d save Sammy, Sam would rescue our parents’ photograph from the fireplace mantle, since it’s all we have left of them, besides the business itself. Billie would rescue Charlie (we all thought that was sweet, until she reminded us that Charlie runs the business, so without her none of us get paid). Charlie said she’d rescue the books from her office (after making sure Billie was okay too), and Donna said she’d save the recipes from the safe. (She really loves working here, clearly.)_

_Anyway, it made me think, besides people, what physical object would I save? I think your letters are my most important possession, and they’d be what I’d fetch. I never had anyone write personal messages to me before. Everything else I own is replaceable. I’m sure you and I would mostly remember everything we wrote, but we’d never remember the exact words we used. I know it’s ridiculous. But I thought you might find it funny._

_Right now Charlie and Billie are off on one of their late-night trips. They go riding through the nearby forests in the evenings, and I’d be jealous were it not for how muddy they are when they come back. Maybe it would be fun to root around in the dirt if you had a real good friend to do it with, but I don’t have that, so I’m happy to stay clean._

_It’s funny, actually – Billie looks after our horses (well, one horse and some ponies), and Charlie’s the boss, but they get along like there’s no difference between them. I suppose it’s a bit like you and I. I’m head baker of a successful company, but my profits are slim, and I work just to live, mostly. At least I enjoy the work. You must be rich, given all the money you’ve spent on daily dessert deliveries. I don’t think many people would expect you and I to get along, yet somehow we do._

_Ideally, the Winchester Family Bakery business would be able to grow, and Charlie would be able to pay more staff. I sometimes imagine we could upgrade our barn with an extra wing, and start a little bakery supply chain. Pies, probably, since they’re the most fun to make and Charlie says the customers always love them. The apple pies are our best-sellers, and good thing too, given we still use my grandmother’s recipe._

_As much as I love it, I so desperately want to do something with my life other than bake. But right now we can’t afford to grow. Maybe someday._

_Oops, I’ve run out of paper now. Write back soon!_

_Dean._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Dear Dean,_

_Besides my bees, my mother, our gardener, the cook, and the stray cat that sometimes sneaks into the kitchens to steal scraps (but refuses to let us adopt it), I would save the trunk with your letters too. I keep them in the same trunk I keep my bee research and notes, but the trunk is fireproof, so I’d probably be safer leaving them and coming back once the fire’s gone. But yes, I do keep them all._

_I’m a little shy to admit it, but when I sent your first letter on to the flour company, I copied it out and sent them the copy. I wanted to keep the original. That must sound strange to you, but I was just so terribly lonely back then, and I was worried I’d never hear back from you. My apologies for not telling you I did that. I hope you don’t mind._

_My family is financially well-off, yes. Did I ever tell you the story? The short version is that my great-great-grandfather was second in line for the throne of Iceland, and he happened to be very wealthy. Once he’d passed away, he gave his money to his daughter through his last will and testament. There’s a long-surviving superstition within my family that our family fortune is blessed with the love of the angel cherub, Cupid, and only those who fall in love with their soulmate and carry on the family name will keep their money. So far, everyone in my bloodline has done exactly that. There is a much longer story, but I’ll save it for another time._

_I do dream of a day when it happens to me. Falling in love sounds so fanciful, doesn’t it? I wonder how long it will be until I parent children. Do you ever think about having children, Dean? Is that important to you when you think about finding a husband?_

_Wishing you and your family safety. Please don’t die in a fire, I’d be very upset._

_Castiel._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Hey Cas,_

_Sorry about the delay. The flour shortage seriously messes up the schedule. Sam had to go out of town to get some product actually worth using. And then everyone kept trying to lecture me about leaving trays unwashed instead of letting me bake._

_You talk about Cupid as if getting hit with an arrow and making babies is a sure thing. Just because your parents were soulmates, and your grandparents too, and your great-grandparents, and your family name is a reference to Cupid’s arrows... You really believe people are fated to fall in love? I don’t know, I find it laughable._

_Or maybe I just think that because..._

_Well._

_I’m not sure how open I ought to be about personal matters. I know you and I are good friends now, but I can’t help remaining guarded..._

_Oh, what the hell. You spilled your heart to me in the first letter you sent, and you’re some of the most regular business we have right now – I may as well give you something._

_I’m engaged to be married. Charlie and I have been engaged for several months – damn, almost half a year now? But we haven’t set a date for the wedding. Charlie insists it’s just because we’re both so busy, but I think we both..._

_At least..._ I _..._

_Look, I’m not sure how to write about this. Writing letters isn’t like talking aloud. I don’t talk the way I write, and I rarely talk about anything but the bakery. The family business has been my life since I was small, and it’s all I’ve ever_ needed _to talk about. Sometimes Charlie and I discuss books, Billie and I talk about horses, and Sam and I discuss the state of the world – but I never talk about my ‘feelings’. Not even to my horse._

_Anyway, what I’m trying to say... I think I might not love Charlie the way I’m supposed to, Cas. I don’t know what to do about it. We’re ENGAGED. I’m supposed to be in love. I’m supposed to look forward to, you know, the ‘birds and the bees’. Kissing and making babies. All of that._

_But somehow this feels more like a sibling relationship to me than anything else. I do love Charlie, of course I do, but the same way I love Sam._

_I’m sorry. I’ve never told a soul this secret. I desperately want to screw this paper up and burn it, and start over, but I paid for this paper, dammit, and this ink, and I’ve already wasted so many minutes of my evening writing this out. Do me a favour and burn this letter once you’ve read it. I’d hate for anyone to find out._

_Dean._

_P.S. Enjoy the raisin buns. With the flour shortage they cost twice as much to make as they used to._

_P.P.S. Am I meant to call you ‘your majesty’ or something?_

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Dear Dean,_

_I never realised how deeply another’s words could touch me until your last letter. Contrary to your instructions, I refuse to burn it. I will keep it safe, and re-read it whenever I need reassurance._

_See, the thing is, Dean, I too find myself set apart from society’s expectations. I’ve never found myself especially drawn to other people in a romantic sense. For so long I’ve preferred to be alone, but sometimes (more often in recent times) I’ve started to wonder if that’s really what I want._

_I know I talk about Cupid’s arrows a lot. The subject is always on my mind. I hope someday I’ll fall in love. I want to meet the right person, and experience the joy of lovemaking. I want to run my hands over someone’s heart and feel it beat, and breathe in their scent so deeply that the air I inhale lifts me off the ground, and I feel like I’m floating._

_Sometimes I even wonder if I’ve already met my destined lover. I wonder what else must come to pass before I’m certain they’re the one. Every night now, I pray for Cupid’s arrow to hit me, Dean. I want so badly to be with someone special, and make a life with them._

_Oh, and on the subject of what people refer to as ‘the opposite sex’! Isn’t it maddening how, as children, we’re teased with the almighty knowing of ‘the birds and the bees’, only to grow older and be informed of half-truths and outright lies?_

_Only when I delved into my own research did I find out that even the most_ knowledgeable _of teachers failed to mention the most special, spectacular thing about honeybees. They have three sexes, not two. Or, at least, the queen bee is the only one who is (by human standards regarding reproduction) a female. The drones are male. But the workers are all non-gendered, and never seek a mate in their lifetimes._

_I feel a certain solidarity with worker bees that I so rarely feel for other people. They are utterly glorious._

_I’ve been putting it off, but I suppose I should tell you... For a long time my bees have been my closest friends. Though there are thousands of them, they are but small, and terribly difficult to tell apart. I’m not ashamed to admit I wept when I read your words, Dean, when you said we were friends. I’m so glad to have a friend. Thank you._

_Castiel._

_P.S. Your raisin buns are the best buns ever made, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. My mother tried some and became practically plum-faced with jealousy. Please send pie next, I know it’s your favourite to make._

_P.P.S. Absolutely NOT, please don’t call me ‘your majesty’. You called me ‘Cas’, and I quite like that._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

Dean read Castiel’s letter for the third time. He was tucked into bed now, oil lamp burning golden on the bedside. He couldn’t go to sleep, not yet. He wanted to read it again.

Again.

Again.

There was something so important about this one. Dean felt like there was a secret for him, hidden between the words. It was not explicitly written that Castiel was falling in love with Dean, but it seemed easy to believe it. _I pray for Cupid’s arrow to hit me, Dean. I want so badly to be with someone special, and make a life with them._

Why put Dean’s name there, in between _those_ words?

Dean wanted to be hit with an arrow, too.

Maybe he already had been.

_Sometimes I even wonder if I’ve already met my destined lover. I wonder what else must come to pass before I’m certain they’re the one._

“You ‘n me both,” Dean said aloud.

His eyes skimmed back to his other favourite part, allowing excitement to take him over for the fifth or sixth time. _But the workers are all non-gendered... I feel a certain solidarity...._

A thrum of arousal descended Dean’s body, throbbing between his legs. He wasn’t fully certain what Castiel meant, with the comparison to non-gendered bees, but nevertheless, it thrilled Dean to even consider the possibility that Castiel was _not_ a woman.

Dean didn’t know why.

He’s always liked women. He’d always liked _only_ women. And yet, considering the idea of falling in love with someone wildly different from everyone before, it made his heart quicken, his body pulsing until he was forced to squirm between the bedsheets, pressing a scrunch of cool fabric to his crotch. He wondered if he was just... confused. Maybe he was excited about something else.

Perhaps it was just the thrill of talking about love. The subject made mundane, irrelevant things seem special.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**


	3. Dean's in Love (And Everyone Sees It Except Him)

Nowadays, Dean whistled while he kneaded the dough. He made up songs about baking and sunshine, and sang them to himself as he pulled trays in and out of the kilns. He danced with Donna around the preparation table, and when he took breaks, he whisked his horse out from Billie’s nose, and rode her for fifteen minutes at a time, even if it was only around the bakery's delivery courtyard.

Sam had noticed the difference, and Donna had noticed the difference, and Billie had _certainly_ noticed, as now she had to clean mud off Baby’s hooves two or three times a day. Dean felt like he was the only one who didn’t understand what his co-workers were talking about. He’d always been this cheerful, hadn’t he?

“Nope,” Sam said, firmly, though he smiled. “You used to drag yourself out of bed at four in the morning – _late_ – complain all the way down the stairs, and grumble from dawn to dusk about everything. Literally everything.”

“Did not,” Dean huffed.

“Oh, no?” Donna pried, waving a pink posey in Dean’s face. “Who bought this flower, hm? Tell me the last time you brought us flowers.”

Dean scoffed, tying his apron strings behind his back. “Last spring?”

“Wrong,” Donna said. “Never. You’re _happy_.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Say that _more_ accusingly, why don’t you.”

Billie leaned casually against the open door that led to the courtyard. The sound of birdsong trilled in behind her. “I have a theory,” she said.

“Oh, and what’s that?” Dean asked, eyes averted.

“It’s those letters you keep getting.”

Sam gasped loudly and deeply. Donna clicked her fingers at Dean, click-click-click-click. Both Donna and Sam made jumbled sounds of agreement.

Dean rolled his eyes, smiling helplessly. Now they mentioned it, he couldn’t really disagree, could he?

“Once every day,” Billie said. “One letter. Purple envelope.”

“And he runs up to his room and locks the door,” Donna said, following Dean closely as he gathered up the ingredients for fruit flan. “Then he comes downstairs, and tells us about _the most important thing_ we can make today—”

“Peach tarts,” Sam said, poking the pad of his thumb. “Rye bread.” He poked his index finger. “Apple turnovers. Danish pastries. Nut cake. Sticky date pudding. Four dozen chocolate bird nests.” Sam had run out of fingers to poke, as the bird nests had indeed been numerous. He lifted his hands in surrender. “Not saying you’re obsessed with your pen-pal, Dean, but yeah, you kind of are.”

“It’s good business!” Dean complained, lining up his ingredients, then turning to wash his hands. “Cas sends money, I send baked goods. It gets you guys paid, don’t it?”

“Cas?” Donna grinned. “Is that her name?”

Dean bristled. “Maybe.”

Sam nudged Dean in the side. “Is it short for something?”

Dean stilled his hands, drying them on a towel. He stared into the sink, where the water drained away, leaving a shiny sunshine heart glowing in the basin. He couldn’t help smiling, he really couldn’t. “Castiel,” he said.

“Awww,” Sam said.

“That’s beautiful,” Billie said.

“Charlie is gonna _flip_ when she finds out there’s another woman,” Donna grinned.

“No she’s not,” Dean said firmly, looking Donna in the eye. “Because Cas is just a friend. A good friend. Nothing else. And besides—”

Dean drew a breath, suddenly realising he didn’t want to finish that sentence.

“What?” Sam urged, nudging Dean again. “Besides _what_?”

Dean licked his lips, unable to come up with another thing to say. He glanced at his friends – his family – and let his shoulders relax. Over the last few months, Cas had encouraged him to open up to others, and Dean had discovered how much easier it made his life. Maybe just this once, he could talk to his co-workers as candidly as he’d write to Cas. So Dean pushed up an awkward smile, and admitted, “Honestly? I don’t even know for sure whether Cas _is_ a woman. So it’s not like I’m on the cusp of having an affair. Charlie’s got nothin’ to worry about.”

Sam seemed taken aback. “Wait. So all the letters. Weeks and weeks— _Months_ — All _winter_ , you’ve been writing to this Castiel person, and you don’t even know if they’re a girl?”

Dean stood with his mouth hanging open. “Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that! But Cas never said, and I never asked, and frankly, after a hundred – shoot – nearly a hundred and _twenty_ letters, it’s kind of too late _to_ ask.” He looked determinedly at Sam. “Cas is just a _friend_. There’s nothing for Charlie to be jealous _of_. But— But, don’t tell her, though. Y’know.” Dean rolled a shoulder, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Just in case.”

“Just in case she finds out you’re falling in love with someone else?” Donna teased, eyebrow raised.

Dean had no idea why he blushed. Really. His face went up in flames of its own accord, his blood seared in his veins, his heart skipped a beat, his breath came out jagged, and he had to bite his damn lip to keep from giggling. He averted his eyes, praying his audience didn’t see his cheeks darken.

“Ohhhhh,” Billie droned. “Ohhhh, boy. He’s head over heels.”

Dean scoffed and looked imploringly at the others. “No, come _on_ , it’s not like that! It’s not. Me and Cas just talk about food, and politics, and money, and the beehives – Cas has beehives,” he added, grinning, “and... stuff like that, you know? What I’m gonna do when I get old. What growing up was like, looking after Sammy. And how to work a kiln oven. And about how Cas picks which socks to wear in the morning. And Cas’ weird dreams, and we try and pick apart what they mean. I told Cas about you guys, obviously. It’s just random shit, nothing _important_. I don’t even know what Cas looks like, okay? ‘Castiel’ is just a faceless stranger to me. When I write things, Cas writes back with good advice and funny stories. And I send food every day. It’s not a big deal.”

Sam turned his eyes to Donna. Donna shared a glance with Billie. Billie and Sam locked eyes, their faces unreadable.

Dean trembled. “I mean,” he mumbled, “I really _like_ talking to Cas. Kinda calms me down. Best part of my day, I guess...? Maybe.” He hugged his middle, uneasy now.

But as he thought back to the moment he opened Cas’ previous letter, a smile fluttered onto Dean’s face, and warmth took him over. Sunbeams invaded his heart, made him glow from the inside out. He flushed with delight, and joy, and a helpless, loving sigh escaped him before he could stop it.

“Wait...” He blinked a few times, smile fading.

Maybe he _was_ falling in love. Really? Was it even _possible_ to fall for someone he couldn’t picture in his mind? Someone who might not even be a _woman_?

He looked up at his friends, and found they were staring at him. “Don’t— Don’t tell Charlie,” he begged. “Don’t you dare tell her. I don’t wanna ruin anything. Me ‘n her have gotta get married, she’s not legally allowed to own property and it’s the only way she can take half the business.”

Sam pressed a nervous smile between his lips. He quickly looked away, and hurried to start the next round of baking.

Billie nodded, and turned away to leave.

Donna remained.

Dean stared at her.

With a reassuring smile, Donna reached to touch Dean’s arm.

Dean smiled at her, grateful. He accepted her hug, and smiled at her whisper of, “Congratulations, you little lovebunny.”

As Donna turned away, Dean’s smile only grew. He was falling in love. He knew it was wrong, and God, did it scare him. But there was no way to keep himself from feeling so fantastic.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Cas—_

_I can’t bear it any more. Tell me what you look like, I need to know. All I can imagine is a blurry figure of loneliness and compassion. I don’t know the colour of your skin, the shape of your face, the colour of your eyes. We’ve written so deeply about who we are inside, but I want to know what you look like on the outside. I want to imagine you so perfectly that I can shut my eyes and picture you like I’ve looked at you for years._

_I want to know how you laugh, if you hide your face or if you throw your head back. I want to know how your hands look, how they dance on your piano keys. Tell me the shape of your lips. Describe the line of your teeth. Tell me whether all the food I’ve sent you has made you softer in any places, or if you were soft all over to begin with._

_List me every blemish, every scar. Tell me what you fuss with when you look in the mirror._

_And then write me back. Tell me what you want to know about me – anything – and I’ll tell you._

_Dean._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Dean,_

_For a long time I’d been afraid to ask that question. Perhaps even more afraid to answer it. What if I was not to your liking, or you not to mine? We’re only human after all, we’re all guilty of making judgements based on the outer shell of a person. But I shall tell you about me, because you asked so beautifully._

_I wear tailored suits, most days. I like the ones with a split tail, in earthy colours. My favourite is a sandy brown, and I wear it with an ocean-blue necktie, or a bow tie. Always the crispest white shirt, of course. I wear shoes with a slight heel – I took to doing this as a teenager, always self-conscious about being shorter than my peers. Even when I grew, I kept wearing the shoes out of habit._

_I suppose I must have a slight tan, as I spend so many hours in the sun with my bees, or sitting in the gardens, breathing in the scent of the flowers. I am of average to large build, and the softness only happens to accumulate under my chin over the winter. It’s spring now (at last!) so the softness is fading._

_I have my hair short, but long and stylish enough to keep my mother happy. It’s dark. I was sandy-haired as a child but as I aged it darkened, and now it’s brown, almost black but not quite. As little as I care about such things, I usually keep my face hairless. Besides my arched eyebrows, of course._

_I have... tall lips. I’m not sure how to describe them, I’m running my fingers over them as I write. They make a flat line if I keep my mouth relaxed. I feel grooves in them, wrinkle lines. But they are not dry, or chapped, as they sometimes get if I forget to pay attention._

_My eyes are hooded, gently sloping downward towards my temples. My irises are blue, with a darker ring around them._

_My piano teacher once said I have an artist’s hands. I’m not sure what she meant by that, but my gardener also said once that I have a carpenter’s hands. They’re delicate and precise, but also muscular, I suppose._

_I would describe my laugh to you, Dean, but I’m ashamed to say I haven’t heard it in a long time. Whenever you write, I do chuckle sometimes. If you make me blush I shut my eyes and look down, and I’ve never been certain why. Last time I did that, you said I ‘write pretty’, and I thought that was very kind of you to say. When I smile, it’s a tame smile, but there have been times your words have made me grin fully. If someone else were to see, they’d see my straight upper teeth and crooked lower teeth. I don’t smile enough to care what others see. In the last few months all my smiles have been for you._

_Did you mean for me to describe my appearance under my clothes, as well? I fluster, thinking you might have. I’ll tell you, and if you don’t want to know, skip this paragraph. I have a number of freckles on my chest, one above my nipple. My nipples are dark, and... as I touch them, they grow erect. Such peculiar things. I’m sorry if you didn’t want to know that. I often have to touch to discover anything new._

_Forgive me, but... do you ever touch yourself, Dean? Sometimes I do. But only at night, when I’m certain everyone else has gone to bed. Do you ever think about someone? I can only imagine you must find it impossible or even repulsive to think about your betrothed, if you see Charlie as a sibling. So, perhaps... someone else?_

_(Is it terrible for me to ask that? Only you wanted me to ask the questions that burn inside me, and I have wondered for some time now.)_

_Write me back. Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself, if you do._

_Castiel._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

Dean was trembling. He bit his bottom lip, curling his thighs together, trying to squeeze his arousal back down. Did Cas really mean that? _Sexual_ touching? Dean’s eyes darted to the bedroom door, his breath catching. The door was shut. But Sam was still awake, brushing his teeth before bed. Charlie was playing music on the gramophone in her room. Billie went to sleep early, but Donna stayed up late, reading every night.

Dean didn’t have Castiel’s patience. He couldn’t wait until everyone was asleep. He whimpered as he lay down, holding the purple letter over him with one hand, sliding his other hand under the covers. He shivered, hand pressing to his heart. His stomach. His belly, then... _yes_... under his waistband.

He’d been getting harder and harder, ever since the moment he’d read the description of Castiel’s lips. It was only natural that he’d begun to fantasise, pictures and feelings in his mind and body of what it would be like to... to _kiss_ Cas. To press his own lips to his friend’s. How magical would it be? Just to sense the same aroma in a kiss as Dean had breathed in from every letter, every written note grazed with the beekeeper’s loving hands.

Dean cupped his hand around his erection, palm to his own heat. He felt himself swelling. He did this often, but somehow, it... felt so much _better_ with Cas’ true appearance in mind, more exciting. _Electric._ After reading the description, it was easy to picture a face. A beautiful, handsome face. Tanned skin, a sleek jaw, hooded eyes – blue eyes. Tall, kissable lips. A crooked smile, eyes downturned as Castiel blushed.

A quiet moan of pleasure escaped Dean, and he began to rub himself. “Yeaahh,” he groaned, biting his lower lip. “Cas.”

He read the words again. They were the best, most arousing words he’d ever read.

_My nipples are dark, and... as I touch them, they grow erect._

_In the last few months all my smiles have been for you._

Dean shut his eyes and cried out, head tipping back into his pillow. “Ohu—”

In Dean’s mind, he pictured Castiel, denuded of everything, left naked. Gone was all the suit fabric, no tie, no crisp white shirt. Bare-chested. Aroused, nipples taut...

Dean dropped the letter in order to touch his own nipples, pushing his hand under his pyjama shirt until the buttons undid themselves. He sighed, circling a finger around his left nipple, then running over the point. “Hmmm...hh...”

He swallowed, looking down at himself.

What if Cas looked like this? What if Cas has a penis too? Dean caught fire, whining in delight, needing to roll onto his front to blast his cry of pleasure into his pillow so he wasn’t heard. He sobbed, humping his palm. He was fully erect now, so hard it crazed him. He imagined Cas lying in the dark, too shy to keep an oil lamp burning like Dean. Touching. _Rubbing_. Looking down and seeing spread thighs, erection thick and swollen, hand working fast to find release.

Even if Cas had to sit on a hand and squeeze tight to find pleasure, with nothing big and solid to hold... Dean liked that. The idea sent him reeling, thrashing in the bedsheets. What if Cas got _wet_ when aroused, even slipped fingers _inside_ —

Dean shuddered, yelling into his pillow, fucking his hand as quickly and deeply as he could. “HMhm. Hmhm—” He lifted his head to gasp, grinning, whispering, “Yeah, hh _yeah_ , yeah—”

The fact remained: Dean still didn’t know. He didn’t know if Cas was female. He didn’t know if Cas was male. He loved that. It maddened him, confused him, _excited_ him that he didn’t know, and truly didn’t mind. Cas was a worker bee. Not one, not the other. Something _else_.

Cas could press Dean into the bed and slip something hard between his thighs, fuck him deeply, leaving hot trails of white between Dean’s legs when they were done. Or Cas could sit on Dean’s waist and cradle him with softness and heat, and bend down to give Dean something tender to suck on, and Dean would be aroused by that, equally. He even imagined a feminine-bodied Cas pressing him down, biting him, slipping confident fingers into Dean over and over until he came. And then Dean imagined a strong, muscular Cas, with a stubborn erection, laying Dean down, holding him gently from behind and anointing his neck with the softest, most delicate kisses.

There was no way for Dean to imagine Cas in a way that didn’t drive him wild. Cas could be anything, anyone, with a face or body which was unlike any Dean had seen or imagined before. But Cas was _Cas_.

And now...?

Yes. Dean was certain: he was in love with Cas.

He had to be. Cupid’s arrowhead was lodged within Dean’s heart and there was nothing he could do about it. Dean had fallen in love with a personality. Cas could have said _anything_ to describe himself and Dean would have felt attracted. Cas could have had _tentacles_ and Dean would still want to touch himself at the thought.

Dean hid himself under the covers, head under his pillow, allowing himself to moan aloud. “Cas... Mhhh...” He grinned, panting, nodding to himself. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” He opened his mouth wide, grunting— “Uhnh...” He bit the sheets, growling, shaking them like a dog. Grunting, _grunting_ , he shook his fist around his cockhead, body tense, _forcing_ himself against the mattress. Cas’ letter was crumpled up under there with him, and Dean lay his cheek on the paper, smiling. “Cas,” Dean whispered...

He sighed, relaxing as he came. It was a relief, release. He purred to himself, limbs sinking down, stretching out. He hugged his pillow tight, then lifted his letter to fold it up. He put it neatly on the nightstand – then turned down the lantern.

Finally bathed in darkness, Dean’s thoughts became mostly incoherent. But what he felt, felt like sunshine, dancing in his heart.

Once snuggled up, Dean exhaled, and went straight to sleep.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**


	4. Charlie Finds Out

“Sam— Sammy!” Dean hurried across the kitchen, waving to his brother.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, dusting flour across the work surface.

“I’m heading out now, I’ll be back tomorrow,” Dean said, hoisting his bag higher up his back. “I’m taking Baby and the cart to bring a ton of flour back, so – are you gonna be okay for deliveries? I’mma post a letter when I head out, I didn’t – um. Didn’t get around to writing yesterday. Cas would be expecting something. Send a pie, okay? A good one.”

Sam nodded. “It’s fine, Billie will find me a horse. You travel safe.”

“Will do,” Dean smiled, clapping Sam on the arm. “Oh, one thing— I’m waiting to hear back from the Oregon Miller flour company, they promised me money back on the dud products.”

“Wow, that took long enough,” Sam scoffed.

“Right?” Dean shook his head. “Anyway, the letter might arrive while I’m gone, so just make sure you open it. Don’t want anyone at the company claiming we waited too long.”

“Got it,” Sam said with a nod.

“‘Kay,” Dean said, patting Sam on the back again. “See ya. I gotta rush. Tell Charlie I said bye.”

“What? No long, deep goodbye kiss for your beloved wife-to-be?” Sam teased.

Dean rolled his eyes. He’d never kissed Charlie on the lips, and he intended to leave before he felt obliged to. He gave Sam one last smile, then stepped out into the pouring rain, climbing onto the cart behind his majestic black steed. With one “Hiyah!” and a shake of the reins, Baby stepped into a trot, heading towards the stone arch, then out of the courtyard and into the world.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

“Mail’s here!” Billie called, coming in out of the rain, flapping her tailcoat lapel, then shaking her fluffy mop of black hair, splattering water onto the tiles until her curls reformed into an impressive poof. In her hands she held a collection of envelopes, mostly white, with one purple amongst them. “Leaving the letters on the table!”

“Oka-aay,” Sam sang from the other side of the kitchen. “Thank you!”

Billie glanced towards the kitchen door, where Charlie entered, doing up her waistcoat. “Captain on the bridge!” Billie stood to attention.

Sam chuckled, glancing up. “Hey, Charlie!”

“Ooh, look at _you_ with your new threads,” Billie cooed, approaching Charlie and placing her dark hands on the other woman’s slim waist. “Looking good, girl. Looking _sharp_.”

“Aww, babe,” Charlie smiled. “You flirt.” She was soon distracted, and drew a breath to mutter, “Man, it is _pissing_ down.” She peered out at the rain from the kitchen window nearest the door, shaking her head in marvel. “Did Dean head out already?”

“Yeah, he’ll be back tomorrow,” Sam said, pulling a dough out from the proving drawer. “Flour run.”

“Damn, that means you’re down a horse,” Billie realised. With a sigh, she turned away to leave. “I’ll prep the ponies. Can’t have the almighty Castiel go without pastries for a second day in a row, can we. The world would fall apart.”

Sam grinned, while Charlie squinted unsurely.

“Ooh, mail,” Charlie said, spotting the pile of envelopes. She began sifting through them, looking for anything addressed to her, or the Winchester Family Bakery.

“Dean said there might be something important in there,” Sam called over his shoulder as he kneaded the dough. “Refund from the flour company.”

“Pff, took long enough, huh?” Charlie spluttered, tucking her red hair behind her ear. “Is this it? It’s addressed to Dean.”

“Dean said open it,” Sam nodded, distracted by lumps of the world’s worst flour caught in the sieve. “Ugh, this _grit_.”

Charlie stood by the table, humming to herself as she thumbed open the envelope. She peered in. “No cash,” she noted. “Maybe they sent us _tokens_.”

“Those cheapskates,” Sam muttered.

“Nope, it’s a letter,” Charlie said, flipping open the page. She began to read.

_Dean,_

_It’s been two days, you haven’t written back. Are you okay? Did something terrible happen?_

“Wait, this isn’t from the flour company...” Charlie started to fold the letter again, but her eyes betrayed her and kept reading.

_Or have I scared you with my advances? I never meant to offend you, I’m sorry if I have. I thought..._

_Well, I don’t know what I was thinking, really. I know full-well you’re engaged to be married. I know I have no claim on you, and it’s forbidden for me to think about you that way._

Startled now, Charlie pushed past the chilling waves of alarm that descended her spine, her lips parting, her eyes skipping about the letter to absorb it all at once.

_I’m sorry for any harm I’ve caused. Perhaps it would be best if we sever our friendship, in case I’m not able to restrain my feelings for you. I know myself well enough to imagine it could be true. I’ve fallen in love, Dean, and I’m sorry._

“What?” Charlie whispered.

_I wish you and Charlie all the best._

_Castiel Örvar_   
_Örvar Estate_   
_Portland, Oregon_

Charlie frowned. “What? _Who?_ ”

“Who is it?” Sam called, tossing the flour grit into the trash.

Charlie took a moment to collect herself, restraining a shiver. “Wh... Um.” She covered her mouth with her hand, then breathed out and let her hand drop. “Someone called... Ca... Cas-tiel?”

Sam dropped the sieve. It hit the side of the table, launching a cloud of flour into the air as it bounced off, spun around, leaving trails of white – then finally clattered on the floor and spun around to a stop. The air was tinted white, the flour hanging about like it shared Sam’s feelings. The world had halted. His heart had halted. Everything moved slowly.

Soon Charlie’s shattered expression was visible through the mist as the flour particles drifted downward. She stared at Sam.

Sam stared back, guilt rising as cold acid in his belly.

“Sam, who is this?” Charlie asked, clutching the purple letter, raising it. “She said she’s in love with Dean.”

Sam gaped silently, eyes turning downward. “Dean told us not to tell you.”

“Told— _Us_? Who’s ‘us’?”

“Me, Donna.” Sam gulped. “Billie.”

Something in Charlie’s eyes turned furious. “ _Billie_ knew? _Billie_.”

“Well— Well, yeah, but—”

“For how long? How long has this been going on and I didn’t know?”

Sam approached cautiously, hands up in surrender beside his waist. “We only found out Castiel’s name a few days ago. But Dean and Cas have been mailing for... four... nearly five months. Daily. Cas is the rich client we deliver to. The one bumping up our profits. The one you were _raving_ about the other day.”

“Were any of you ever intending to tell me? Someone else is in love with my fiancé?”

Sam breathed steadily, licking his lips. “I thought Billie might. Or I thought... maybe you might tell Dean your secret first.”

“You _know_ I can’t do that, Sam. None of us can.”

“I know,” Sam said placatingly. “But... But Dean found someone else too. He did the exact same thing you did.”

Charlie gave Sam a cold look. “This is _not_ the same. I can’t tell Dean about Billie and me because we’re both _women_. Why didn’t _he_ say anything? I’ll tell you why. Because the only thing he has to hide is that he’s been unfaithful.”

Sam frowned. “How is it any different to you and Billie? Dean and Cas never even laid _eyes_ on each other, while you and Billie trot off on romantic horse rides every other night.”

“I—” A hurt expression crossed Charlie’s face. “I never thought he was like that, Sam. I thought he was better than that. Better than I’ve been to him.”

“He is,” Sam said, although he shook his head in doubt. “I know he is. He had a good reason, same as you.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

Sam sucked his lips together. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not my secret to tell.” Sam bowed his head, taking the letter out of Charlie’s unresisting hand. “But you’d be surprised how similar your secrets are. You’re similar people.”

“Simila—” Charlie paused mid-word. “Castiel is a man?”

Sam raised a shoulder, then let it slump. He took a breath to speak, starting, “Actually, we don’t—” but silenced himself.

“You don’t know, do you?” Charlie realised. “You don’t know whether Dean’s lover is a man or not.”

“Dean doesn’t know either.” Sam met Charlie eyes. “They were just good friends until they suddenly weren’t.”

Charlie grinned, unable to help herself. “Isn’t that always the way.”

Sam gave her a kind smile. “Dean does love you,” he assured her. “But not in the way you think.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. She looked away. She breathed out.

Then she looked back at Sam, eyes gleaming with relief.

Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion as she said, “This could’ve been over so much sooner. You should’ve told me, Sam.”

“I couldn’t,” Sam said. “If I shared secrets between my friends whenever it suited me, none of you would ever trust me again.”

“Why tell me now?” Charlie looked plaintively into Sam’s eyes, waiting for an answer.

“Because,” Sam shrugged. “At this point in time it seemed like the right thing to do. For all your sakes. Your friendship with Dean was at breaking point, and the truth was the only thing that could save it. And Dean wasn’t here to do it himself.”

Charlie looked down, her eyes drifting to the purple letter Sam held, creased from how tightly she’d grasped it. “Well,” she said, “if Dean does have feelings for Castiel, then we’re all in big trouble.”

“We are?”

“Yeah.” Charlie pointed at the letter. “Castiel just broke up with him.”

Sam gasped and lifted the paper. “What— No no nonono! Dean was so happy! He sang so often he was actually _improving_!” Sam shook his head, breathless. “Dean’s sending Cas a reply today, he’s probably posting it right now as we speak. He never saw this. He doesn’t know their relationship’s over.”

Charlie set her jaw, and smiled a grim, determined smile. “If I were Castiel, I’d feel pretty foolish, if I got Dean’s belated love note right after announcing a breakup.”

Sam nodded. “Right-right. Yeah. Kinda sounds like Cas backtracked, thinking Dean freaked out. Which he probably did, honestly, since he never waits a full day before replying. But...” Convinced now, Sam nodded once more. “Dean still has feelings for Cas. I know he does. He wanted me to send _pie_.”

“His favourite,” Charlie smiled. “Oh, yeah. Dean’s _madly_ in love.”

“So – what do we do? If Dean sees this letter it’ll mess everything up.”

Charlie gave a cheeky grin. “Who said we have to do anything? I never opened a letter. Did you see a letter?”

“What letter,” Sam said, tucking Castiel’s breakup note into his apron pocket.

Sam and Charlie shared a smile, then chuckled and went their separate ways. Sam had bread to bake, and Charlie had a bakery to run. But as they went, each of them felt a bit lighter inside, secrets and worries no longer clinging to their hearts.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

_Cas,_

_I touched myself the other night. I know you were hoping I’d say it, and it’s true: I thought about you. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but... I want you to know. I want you to know everything. I want you to understand how badly I want you._

_I have to be the one Cupid chooses for you, Cas. Maybe it’s crazy, maybe you’re too good for me, maybe we’re not a good match. I might not be everything you’ve dreamed of. But I can’t help how good this feels for me. I’d bet my life in saying Cupid already chose. You and I are meant for each other._

_As much as I want to describe myself in return, Cas, I’m too scared. I’m terrified, actually. I can’t bring myself to tell you what I look like, because there’s a good chance I look nothing like whoever you’ve been picturing. I fully expect that if we ever meet, you’ll see my face and my body and be appalled. But if we do meet? Please remember how much you like me. I’ve only ever lied about one thing, and every other word I’ve shared with you has been the utter truth. And I only lied by not correcting you when you were wrong. I was just... scared. Scared you thought of me as someone else, and if I corrected you, everything would fall apart._

_I’m away until tomorrow. But when I get back, I’m going to end things with Charlie. I never wanted to hurt anyone, and Charlie’s one of my best friends, and I think saying nothing is worse than saying something. I’m in love with you, Cas. I can barely comprehend it, even less believe that I’m writing it, but I can’t go another moment without telling you. That’s why I didn’t write for a couple days, that’s why I waited. I had to be sure. Either I told you how I feel and ended things with Charlie, or I told nobody and ended things with you._

_I hope I made the right choice._

_Yours,_   
_Dean._

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

Castiel fell into his bed, smiling so widely that all his teeth showed, even the crooked ones. He laughed in mirth towards the black rafters, the shadows of night now comforting, providing privacy.

Over his face, Castiel held Dean’s letter. A return confession. A promise for more.

How could he care about a simple lie? A misunderstanding, even? Dean swore she’d been truthful the rest of the time, and that was enough to reassure Castiel. He couldn’t imagine Dean to be unattractive, no matter what shape, size, or colour she was, how she walked (or didn’t), or how she spoke (or didn’t). After all, what need would Castiel have for someone pretty? He wanted someone kind.

Castiel pressed the letter to his face, and he kissed the paper, breathing it in. He could smell rain alongside Dean’s scent. Castiel purred, lowering the letter to his heart, hands over it, feeling the warmth of his palms bleed into the single page.

With a vocal sigh of delight, Castiel stretched out in his bed’s plush blankets, bare feet pushing between them. Turning his cheek to the pillow, he peered out at the moonlit night, ambience from the flower gardens broken by the last of the evening’s rainstorm. It was all a dark blur, but Castiel saw enough light, and heard enough pitter-pattering rain to visualise the world beyond. Knowing Dean had made his powers of fantasy so much easier, although Castiel couldn’t say why or how. He just knew it was Dean’s doing.

Tomorrow evening, the moon would be full, the skies would be clear. And if Castiel had anything to say about it, it would be the perfect night for him and Deanna to finally meet, face-to-face.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

OREGON POSTAL SERVICE | TELEGRAM

DEAN.

MEET ME TONIGHT. 8PM. ÖRVAR ESTATE.

BUTLER WILL BLINDFOLD YOU.

CASTIEL ÖRVAR

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**

“The butler will _what_?” Charlie laughed, taking the telegram postcard from Sam, which was dotted with rain. “And hold up— _Butler_?! How can they afford that?”

“Judging by the number of bakery deliveries Cas pays for per week, the whole family is _rolling_ in money,” Sam explained, stroking his hand down his pony’s soft nose. “Dean said something about Castiel’s great-grandparents inheriting a fortune through someone’s last will and testament. I think Cas has a title, too. Very distant heir to the Icelandic throne.”

“You’re kidding me,” Charlie said, shaking her head. “Holy smokes.”

“Guess Mr. Cinderella found his prince, huh? Or princess,” Sam smiled. He glanced over at the courtyard’s stone arch entrance as Baby trotted in, pulling the flour cart, with Dean in the driver’s seat. Sam waved, while mentioning to Charlie, “Wonder what’ll happen to the bakery once Dean’s been swept off his feet.”

“I’ll be running the place, obviously,” Charlie smiled. “I was _almost_ a Winchester by marriage, which totally counts. Screw the law. I’m family. It’s still a family business.”

Sam chuckled, hands sinking into his pockets. “Sounds about right. As long as I get to be head baker.”

“Done.”

“What are you two conspiring about?” Dean pried, trotting up to the others, approaching with suspicious eyes. Once the cart full of flour bags was fully under the shelter of the bakery’s roof overhang, Dean dismounted, stroking Baby’s flank as he came closer.

“Haven’t you heard?” Charlie teased, holding out the telegram. “Prince Charming requested your presence in the Portland palace.”

“Prince Charming?” Dean asked. He slowly reached for the telegram.

“Yeah,” Sam smiled, hands in his pockets. “You know. Castiel.”

“Casti—” Dean’s eyes shot to Charlie.

“Oh, relax,” Charlie grinned, swiping a hand in Dean’s direction. “I know _all_ about your little love affair with your pen pal.”

“Y-You do?” Dean’s eyes shot back to Sam.

Sam shrugged.

Charlie grinned. “Wanna know something fun? Billie and I are seeing each other.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. “Buh...”

“I’ll let that sink in,” Charlie smiled.

Dean blinked a few times. “Wait. Billie. This whole time – you and her – the rides out—” Dean looked accusingly at his horse. “Oh, come _on_ , Baby. You ‘n me finally got some alone time so I could tell you about Cas, you could’ve at least _hinted_ that Charlie was into Billie. You’ve basically been third-wheeling all their dates, dammit.”

Baby snorted, blowing hot air in Dean’s face. Dean just sighed, rubbing her velvet cheek.

“Guess the wedding’s off, then?” Dean asked, giving Charlie a hopeful sideways smirk.

Charlie chuckled, leaning in to give Dean a hug. Dean kissed the top of her head, and when she pulled back, she winked at him. “ _So_ off.”

“Read the telegram,” Sam said, nodding at the card.

Dean did.

He read it again, to be sure.

Then he looked up at Sam and Charlie. “I’m gonna meet Cas,” he whispered. “I’m— I’m gonna meet _Cas_. I’m gonna _meet_ Cas. Oh, shit.” He looked away in a mixture of awe and horror. Then he looked down at his scrappy brown riding clothes. “What the hell am I gonna wear?”

He scoured the telegram again for a hint. His eyebrows shot up. He brightened completely, eyes shining, giving a little hop on his heels. Then he wrinkled his brows, perplexed. “Wait. Cas’ _what_ is gonna do _what_?!”

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**


	5. The Blind Date

Dean rode up on his horse. You know, as one does.

His heart hammered in his chest and his ears, faster than the clip-clop of Baby’s gigantic hooves against the cobblestones. The blanket of night blacked out the sky, brown city smoke hiding the stars.

But he was not blind in this darkness: before him grew a great, majestic garden, almost as large as the Oregon Miller factory beside it. Golden beams shone up from the ground, highlighting the edges of the leaves, trees, shrubs and flowers all around. Dean was stunned by how gorgeous the place looked, lit up at night. Not only could the Örvar family afford electricity, they could afford a _lot_ of it. And they used it for such beautiful purposes, too.

The grand wrought-iron arch at the entrance was far behind him. Now the distance between Dean and Castiel was shorter than ever before.

In amongst the lush greenery, the front courtyard of the Örvar Estate was clearly made for carts or automobiles to turn around: the carriageway made a loop around a central circle of grass, with a gushing fountain in the centre.

Tiny sparks struck out under Baby’s metal shoes as they circled the fountain.

The path went on: Dean could see a raised light between the trees. A willow tree’s sweeping fronds flittered and swayed in a honey-scented night breeze, hiding the light, then revealing it again. As Dean trotted closer, guiding Baby on a path that led past a pond, he was certain: the light ahead was a house.

Dean peered into the pond as they passed by. Koi fish swirled together, making patterns of moonlight beneath the green-tinted mirror surface of the water. Dean smiled, and journeyed on.

The smell of spring blossom and tulips was dense in the air, and Dean breathed deeply, feeling rainbows of colour impressing upon his soul, even though the night made everything blue, edged in silver by the moon and gold by the electric lights. The perfume was so perfect that he was almost sure he could see every rose, every bud, every leaf and daisy in its full daylight spectrum.

There were the beehives, perched on stilts among beds of flowers. All the flowers were closed for the night, and the bees were probably asleep too, but the stillness and the silence did not subdue the excitement Dean felt in seeing something Castiel loved. He felt _love_ for those special boxes of bugs. They were almost as dear to him as Castiel.

Travelling deeper into the garden, where the trees were taller, Dean’s eyes soon adjusted to the gloom. The plants were more luscious here, with ferns arrayed in a wide space on the right, with thick, drooping tree branches overhanging the pathway.

The cobbles turned to fine grit, and the hard _clop, clop, clop_ became a softer _pash, pash, pash_ , punctuated with an occasional _scronch_ when Baby’s horseshoe dragged on a clay rock.

Dean ducked his head to avoid a hanging vine. He could hear the simmer of crickets and frogs in the undergrowth – then a distant, jubilant laugh from up ahead.

Soon, from between a pair of leafy trees, Dean spotted the source of the yellow light. As he and Baby got closer, he discovered the light came from a tall, well-proportioned two-storey townhouse. A cottage, almost. Even in the moonlight, Dean could tell it was painted in bright, happy colours. Flowering plants grew up its side, and all the windows shone with gold.

“No way,” Dean breathed, grinning. He patted Baby’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Looks like this is our stop.”

Dean dismounted before Baby even halted. He took her reins and led her closer, closer.

He hooked the reins over a gatepost, directly in the entrance to the front yard, where Baby would be sheltered by a white wooden arch. Dean breathed in deeply, smiling at the soft aroma from the climbing vines on the trellis.

Once Dean entered through the arch, he wandered forward, then turned back to admire the sight: his mighty black horse, framed with pink blooms. “Wait for me, Baby,” he told his horse. “If things go well... I might be a while.” He smiled, full of hope.

Baby blew a raspberry at Dean, then swung away to nibble a shrub.

Now Dean faced the house, pausing to collect himself. “Oh, boy,” he said under his breath. He adjusted his bow tie – borrowed from Charlie – straightened his suit – borrowed from Sam, tailored to fit by Donna – then cleared his throat, starting towards the front steps.

The front door was painted moss-green, and featured a glass oval in the middle. A lace curtain hung on the inside – and the moment Dean knocked on the glass – _taktaktak_ – he saw movement behind the curtain.

The door opened up. Dean was greeted by a wrinkly black man in muddy gardening outfit with a single leather glove, with a giant grin on his face. “Oh-ho!” the man said. “Oh-ho- _ho_!”

Dean lifted his fingers in a nervous wave. “Hi? My name is Dean, I’m here to see Castiel—”

With a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, the man turned his chin over his shoulder and spoke to someone unseen: “ _Mister_ Winchester to see Örvar, Junior.” He turned back to Dean, and beckoned him inside. “Castiel is waiting for you.” Clearly amused, he added, “Ho- _hohh_.”

Dean stepped inside, taking a moment to look around. Slowly, his jaw dropped.

This wasn’t what he’d expected at all. The floor was checkered black-and-white, and the walls were all tall, brown, and decorated with gold trim, but the place was full of flowers. Thick, overlarge blooms heaved from their alcove vases. Tropical plants hung from the tiny chandelier above. Focusing his gaze further across the hall, Dean saw how twisted vines extended up the stair bannister.

Dean blinked a few times, getting used to the scent of this place. The air was warm on his skin, but the perfume was overpowering once Dean breathed in deeply. Incredible. _Beautiful_.

Looking back over his shoulder, Dean saw the doorman closing the front door.

“You all right, there, kid?” the doorman asked, still grinning. He offered a hand, his dark skin covered in a gardening glove. There was a green stain on one thumb.

“Uh,” Dean said, looking up into the doorman’s wrinkly brown eyes. “What... What’s with this place? Why does it look like I just walked into a jungle?”

The doorman chuckled. “Our young Örvar likes to breathe in something exceptional with every damned breath.”

“Oh,” Dean said faintly. “Right.”

He hoped he smelled good. He’d bathed before coming out, and all his clothes were freshly washed – but oh, God, he’d eaten some pie before leaving the bakery— It was probably stuck in his teeth—

“Sir? If I may?”

The doorman held up a black ribbon.

“Butler— Oh, _you’re_ the butler,” Dean said, feeling small and slow. “Awesome.”

He shut his eyes, letting the butler wrap the cool fabric around his eyes twice, tying it behind his head.

“Any idea why Cas wanted this?” Dean murmured, almost afraid to ask.

The butler chuckled. “Ah. I can only imagine. No doubt this ritual was suggested with the best intentions – Castiel is never anythin’ but kind.”

“Is this usual practise? You know, for... visitors.”

“Visitors?! Ha!” The butler’s warm hands held Dean by his elbows, facing him now. “Son, I’ll tell you now: Castiel Örvar hasn’t wilfully taken a visitor in all our lifetimes. You would be the first.”

“Oh, Rufus, don’t make him so worried,” a woman’s voice warbled from nearby, coming closer. “His aura’s already fussing around like an electrocuted cat.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, dear. I’m Freyr.” Dean felt his right hand enclosed in warmth and comfort, shaken in greeting. “I run this household, look after all the staff, and – ahum – I’m the culprit who always _dares_ invite all the other visitors.”

“Y—” Dean swallowed, getting his bearings. “You’re the housekeeper?”

“Heavens! No, my darling. I’m Castiel’s mother.”

Dean’s face split into an immediate grin. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ms. Örvar said. “Come, now.”

She led Dean slowly and carefully forwards, holding his left forearm. Dean went where she led, feeling safe in her grip. He felt her long skirts wafting against his legs, smooth marble clapping under their every step.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Örvar,” Dean said.

Mrs. Örvar burst out laughing. “Ooorvar? Is that how you pronounce it? It’s _Errh-var_ , my dear. _Errh-var_.” She shook her head, still chortling to herself. “You were saying?”

“Ahh... Yeah. Sorry. I— I’ve read about you in my letters. Cas loves you a lot.”

“Ohh, sweet child. You know, I was certain it was only a matter of time. The moment Castiel wondered to me whether Kúpíd’s gift had been found, and told me it was _you_ , the Winchester baker’s first-born—? I knew it was true. There’s never any doubt in an Örvar’s heart. True love defies the sight of beauty, status, or the accepted norms of the world. Castiel said you were— Well. Your name is De _anna_ , no?”

“Um. Kind of. It’s my full name, yeah. I go by ‘Dean’.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes. Strange as it is, I’m not surprised to find out.”

“Find out... what?”

Freyr breathed dismissively, clucking as she said, “Castiel did say you were engaged to another person, someone named Charlie, but I already knew your engagement was doomed. You’ve called the wedding off, now, yes?”

Dean felt somewhat bare and vulnerable, but found the strength to nod.

“As I suspected.”

Dean was guided ahead while Ms. Örvar stayed a pace behind. He wasn’t sure how, but he could sense he’d been placed in an open doorway.

“Walk five steps forward, my darling. Keep the blindfold on.”

Dean gulped. He nodded.

He took his first step.

Two. Three. Four.

He stopped at five, and heard Castiel’s mother leave.

A deep, soft voice spoke from a little way ahead: “One more.”

Dean felt _tingles_ at the sound of that voice. He obeyed without question.

He could smell old books in here. Paper. Ink. The quiet warmth and heaviness of a library pushed in at Dean’s sides. Though he saw nothing but the faintest yellow light through his ribbon blindfold, he could easily imagine the space around him. A desk with one of those hunching green reading lamps. Stacks of books, leather-bound, cloth-bound. A little bit of a mess. One window ahead with the drapes left undrawn, where cool air rushed down, sinking as night fell.

Dean heard a slow inhale; the person who called him closer was still here.

“I didn’t realise,” the voice said, so guttural that it hurt Dean’s throat just to hear.

Whispering, Dean replied, “Realise what?”

He startled as he felt a touch on his wrist, smoothly coiling around to hold it.

“How beautiful you’d smell. I never imagined. I never—” A soft, breathy laugh. “You have a pulse.”

Dean now understood who he was facing. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Castiel uttered back, surprised. “Y-Your voice—” He huffed, then chuckled in amusement. “Would you believe, all this time I thought I was writing to a woman? Deanna Winchester. But you’re Dean. You’re _Dean_. This was the misunderstanding, wasn’t it? We’re both a ‘he’.”

Dean could feel what Castiel felt: his pulse. Throbbing, head to toe. Was this fear? Longing? Joy?

A little of everything.

“You smell _exquisite_ , Dean,” Castiel said, his voice thick with feeling.

“Y-You, um,” Dean said, trying hard not to let his wrist tremble in Castiel’s hand. “You smell like you look beautiful too. And you sound awesome.” He flushed hotter. “I-I mean—”

Castiel just laughed; a kind and easygoing rumble. “You don’t mind, do you? That I’m shaped this way. We both are.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t care what you look like, Cas. You made me appreciate so much about myself. Everything I once saw as weakness was just... who I was. And my softness, Cas, it was _never_ weakness. _You_ made me see it. You loved it, and you made me love it too. But— But all this time, man or woman – Cas, I’m still _nobody_ compared to you. I— I’m not that handsome. Or that smart. Or rich, or brave, or special—”

Castiel’s hand cupped Dean’s jaw, palm against his bristles. “No, Dean,” he hushed. The air around them moved as he shook his head. “You don’t know how impressive you are. You are easily the most handsome person I’ve met. The smartest. Accepting yourself was brave. Coming here was brave. You are rich in personality and special to _me_.”

“Let me see you,” Dean begged. “C’mon. It’s not fair, you can see me but I can’t see you.”

Castiel was quiet for a moment.

“Very well,” he said. But he pushed past, and Dean heard him walk to close the door. He returned, taking Dean’s waist from behind... sliding his hands up to his hair.

His fingers stroked and tugged, undoing the ribbon.

The blindfold fell away, coiling around Dean’s neck and shoulders, catching on his white collar. Dean looked down, seeing green carpet. Up, seeing bookshelves. The sight was different from what he imagined, but not so different that it was unrecognisable. The window was mere inches away from where he’d envisioned it. The lamp was the exact kind he guessed.

Turning, Dean set eyes on his love.

But Castiel did not set eyes on him.

“Oh,” Dean breathed, his voice vanishing.

Castiel was blind.

Now it all made sense. Now _everything_ made sense. The prison he called a home. The jealousy he felt for those who could ‘truly appreciate’ the beautiful world. The flowers that adorned his entire estate, perfumed with so many exotic aromas. His obsession with Dean’s scent, ever since the very first time they wrote.

Dean touched his hand to Castiel’s cheek, as Castiel had done for him.

He watched Castiel’s dark eyebrows rise, in relief. Utter _relief_. How long had he waited for this loving touch?

“You told me you had blue eyes,” Dean said softly.

“I _had_ blue eyes,” Castiel said. He blinked, near-blank pupils gazing serenely into Dean’s. “I can still see a little. Enough to make out your shape, the placement of your features.” He lowered his chin, then glanced up, a pained smile on the corner of his lips. “I can even read a page of bold, all-caps lettering, written by someone who abhors cursive.”

Dean grinned. “My teachers hated me.”

“As did mine,” Castiel said, holding Dean’s hand, both coiling together between their chests. “It took me too long to realise the reason I learned so little was because I couldn’t see the other end of the classroom. How could I know there was anything to see if I couldn’t see it?”

“Why did you never tell me?” Dean asked, breathless. “We’ve written to each other for months and you never said you were sightless, not once.”

“You never said you were a man,” Castiel retorted.

“That’s not the same! I didn’t realise you didn’t know!” Dean exhaled sharply, realising something. “No— Wait, I did. Not at first, but I realised eventually.”

When Castiel remained silent, waiting, Dean prepared to explain. He rested his fist on his burning forehead, head down. “It took several letters before I realised – I’d never actually explicitly mentioned being – you know, _this_. And then it kinda— I dunno. Felt good. Talkin’ about my soppy, girly feelings. Being ‘soft’.” Dean breathed, blushing. “I realised I was growing into the part of me I always pushed away, and I didn’t wanna stop.”

He touched the back of his neck, digging even deeper, searching for truth to share. He found it, and resolved to speak it aloud as explicitly as he would write it. “And maybe— Um. M-Maybe part of me always wanted to try it. Being a woman.” Dean swallowed hard, trying not to blush and failing. He felt his ears and cheeks flaming hot. “I, uh. I-I pretend sometimes. I‘ll dress up, in private, but... I never told anyone else.” He quickly forced out, “When things started between us, I never imagined we’d really meet, so it didn’t matter. Later on, I guess I hoped if you liked me enough, you wouldn’t _care_. Crazy, I know.” He swallowed, turning his face away in shame.

“Luckily for you, I _don’t_ care,” Castiel said kindly, eyebrows rising.

“I still wasn’t totally honest, though,” Dean shrugged. “I— I’m sorry, Cas.” He managed a small smile, lightly urging, “But come on, you didn’t explain why you never said you were blind.”

“I—” Castiel raised his eyes to the ceiling, lost for words. “I wasn’t sure how to say it. I’ve never needed to tell anyone before. People realise I’m blind the moment they look at me.”

“So instead you organise some elaborate meeting, blindfolds, your mother—”

“It was just easier to show you,” Castiel said quietly. “Or perhaps, I, like you, was afraid such a truth would deter you from loving me.”

Dean relaxed, shaking his head. He smiled, lifting Castiel’s fist to kiss his knuckles. Castiel’s face burst into a smile, and Dean grinned, blushing.

“Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask...”

“Anything.”

“ _Are_ you a man?” Dean looked carefully into Castiel’s eyes, admiring his lashes, then his sharp nose. “Or are you... like a worker bee.”

“The latter,” Castiel said. He smiled after he spoke, embarrassed. “I’ve never said that, either. Not ever.”

“But worker bees don’t look for a mate,” Dean said, remembering what Castiel had told him. “They remain celibate for all their lives.”

“True that may be,” Castiel said slyly, “but they bake bee bread and make royal jellies, and feed their little babies, and keep them warm. Worker bees are fundamental to the raising of a family. When the time comes, it’s up to them to raise a new queen. And besides... I never said they don’t make friends in the meantime.”

“Friends,” Dean repeated. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Is that... what we are?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” Dean frowned. “But... I wanted...”

“You wanted something else?” Castiel smiled. Then he chuckled, nodding. He leaned in, sweeping Dean’s senses with dense, calming air; no perfume, no cologne, just the perfect scent of the right person. He kissed Dean on the cheek, an inch in front of his ear. “Perhaps I do want the same, after all.”

Fear and anxiety melted away from Dean, and he sank into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist, as Castiel hugged Dean’s back. They breathed out as one, bodies relaxing to fit together.

Dean pulled back first. And then he leaned in again, for one certain reason.

He kissed Castiel. This time on the lips.

Castiel took Dean’s head in his hands and kissed back, surging in, showing Dean how deeply he’d ached for this. Loving him with all his heart.

**♥ · · · ✉ · · · ♥**


	6. Can't Make Babies; Can Make Love (And Pie)

“You never actually told me the full story,” Dean said, smiling, swinging his hand in Castiel’s. They walked at a slow pace through the gardens, under the careful watch of the full moon. “Your ancestors, and their thing with Cupid. You never explained the whole thing.”

“Ah, yes,” Castiel said, with a twinkle in his white eyes. “It begins with a very poor, but very kind and hardworking man.”

“The farmhand,” Dean remembered.

“Yes. He was getting on in years, focused mainly on working the fields for most of his life. He liked the work, but always craved... more. He suspected he had the potential for greatness but had no means to achieve it. His only link with the greater world was a friend, someone he knew with the surname Örvar, a very rich and powerful man.”

“Hmm. They sound like two people I know,” Dean chuckled.

“Yes, and that’s the point,” Castiel said, leading Dean through an archway of roses, into a tunnel of trees. An owl caught sight of them, hooted, then flew away. Castiel smiled, then turned his chin towards Dean, so confident of his surroundings that he turned to walk backwards. “Now, the rich, fat, and flamboyant Örvar _insisted_ that the farmhand meet his daughter. He thought they would be a great match. But of course, the farmhand refused.”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckled. “Me and him both.”

“Pardon me?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothin’.” But he shrugged, and explained, “Just, you’re way outta my league, Cas. I’m a baker. _Head_ baker, sure. But _you_...”

Castiel tilted his head, curious to find out where that sentence would go.

Dean drew a deep breath, eyes rising to see the moon through the leaves of the trees above. “Just carry on with the story, would you?”

“Um. Alright.” Castiel faced forward again, slowing down as they reached a fork in the path. “For the second time, Örvar told his farmhand friend, ‘Come and meet my daughter’. But the farmhand thought he and the girl would have nothing in common. He’d been friends with Örvar for many years, but the farmhand never felt worthy of their friendship. He didn’t feel he had anything to offer any woman, let alone a woman with high standing and a connection to Icelandic royalty.”

Dean snorted, a slightly hysterical smile sneaking onto his face.

Castiel side-eyed Dean, obviously judging him for his snort even without being able to see him clearly. “The third time,” Castiel said, sternly, “Örvar asked the farmhand to meet his daughter, and the farmhand still refused. He was convinced he was no good to love, and he’d inevitably bring misery to any woman. He spoke only Lithuanian, not English, and didn’t find himself handsome or smart. He wasn’t worthy, in his humble opinion.

“But,” Castiel went on, speaking softly now, “It was only beside his friend’s deathbed that the farmhand finally met Örvar’s daughter. The two fell in love almost instantly, and were married within a month. It was true they had very little in common, but they _both_ spoke Lithuanian and could talk for hours on end, and make each other laugh, and teach each other all sorts of things. Alas, their friend Örvar had passed away, and could not be there to share their joy.”

“Rest in peace, big guy,” Dean muttered.

“He does,” Castiel nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“Because, Örvar’s daughter and the farmhand together gifted the world a child. A beautiful baby girl. My mother’s grandmother. And on the same day as that first child was born, they discovered that Örvar had bequeathed an absolute _fortune_ to them as a couple. But only on the condition that they bore children.”

“Wow,” Dean scoffed. “Lucky save, huh.”

“Quite.” Castiel followed where Dean led now, and Dean wandered into a shady clearing, where the moonlight was dappled and frogs sang in chirps from the ferny undergrowth. Dean ushered Castiel to a fallen log, helped him to sit, then sat beside him, still holding hands.

“My mother tells me this old man Örvar was a cherub in disguise, walking the Earth.” Castiel smiled, his teeth showing in a slight grin. “One of God’s angels, sent to pull at the strings of fate.”

“Wouldn’t that make you a descendant of angels, then?” Dean smirked.

Castiel turned his face to Dean, eyes half-closed, but his smile smug. “Yes, it would. It very much would. The tale goes that the family fortune will thrive for as long as the family name passes to the next generation. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the name Örvar means ‘arrows’, as though my family is one line of fated individuals, struck one-by-one throughout history by Cupid’s bow and quiver.”

When Dean gulped, unsure, Castiel merely squeezed his hand, leaned closer, and rested his forehead on Dean’s cheek. In a guttural whisper, Castiel imparted a secret: “It’s no coincidence that you relate to the farmhand, Dean. Of all the things that have changed from generation to generation, from queen to queen to queen, ending with me, a non-gendered worker bee with blinded eyes – the pattern has remained the same. My mother married a shoemaker. _Her_ mother married a stable boy. And her mother before married a servant.”

Dean smirked. “Kinda sounds like your whole family has a type.”

“Yes,” Castiel nodded, lifting his head but remaining inches from Dean. “The Örvar family is most drawn to people imbued with instinctive kindness, a passion for hard work, and a deep-seated longing to be more than what they are. To travel. To be part of a larger world. And to bring others into that world.”

“Bring others—” Dean’s breath caught. “But you ‘n me, Cas— No offence, but we’re both— You know. We can’t—?”

Castiel’s smile was a little amused. “We both have a phallus and no womb.”

“I wasn’t gonna say it. Kinda tough to make babies like that.”

Castiel breathed in deeply. “Yes,” he said, “however...” He tilted his head, still smiling. “In beekeeping, I’ve discovered that... sometimes a hive finds themselves without a queen, and no means by which to make one. Of course, under normal circumstances, the queen is the only bee who can make babies. Without a queen, a few of those non-gendered worker bees develop the ability to produce young. But only males are born. These males can fly out and father offspring, but in new colonies. And so the bloodline continues, in a different way to before, even as the old colony dies out.

“In my experience,” Castiel went on, applying a kiss to Dean’s neck, “anything that begins small and uncertain, then grows until it surpasses the need for our care would count as a child.”

“The old line ends but something new begins,” Dean said. “Like your bees.”

“Like my bees,” Castiel agreed, nosing at Dean’s jaw. “But – more like a business.”

Dean inhaled. Cas was smooching his ear.

“Like I mentioned before,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s throat, sucking this time, “The Örvar family fortune remains intact through good investment. All that must continue is the family surname, not necessarily the bloodline.”

“We could adopt,” Dean realised, tipping his head back to expose his neck some more.

“We could.”

Dean had a further thought, but it was blurred by Castiel’s attention on his throat. Dean lifted his chin a little further, shutting his eyes as he hummed in pleasure. Castiel smiled, Dean felt it on his Adam’s apple.

“I love how you smell, Dean,” Castiel breathed, leaving the tiniest bite against Dean’s skin. “I know you washed with soap but there’s no washing away the sugar. I could lick you all over.”

Dean’s breath shuddered; he tilted his head to the side, letting Castiel bite him again. “Oh my God,” Dean breathed, dizzy from how good this felt. He wanted to lie down.

Castiel’s hands took Dean around the waist; his grip was firm, his kisses deepening, his body warm and thick as it pressed to Dean’s side.

“Auhh,” Dean moaned, helpless to keep the sound inside.

Castiel chuckled, running the tip of his nose against Dean’s jaw. “Do you want more?”

Dean nodded, eyes shut. “Uh-huh.”

Castiel sealed his hot lips around Dean’s earlobe, sucking softly until Dean felt his tongue touch his skin. “Hmm,” Castiel purred, moving to smooch under Dean’s ear, nuzzling his neck.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, groping a hand until he found Castiel’s, and held it.

“Let’s make love,” Castiel whispered, voice deep and eager.

Dean trembled. His eyes snapped open, gazing at the hushing trees and the slash of moonlight sparkling through the boughs. “Here?” he asked.

“We’re alone,” Castiel assured him.

A hot thrill of excitement struck through Dean’s belly, and he grinned. “Okay?” He lowered his chin to gaze into Castiel’s unfocused eyes. “Want me to undo my buttons, or...?”

“Undo mine,” Castiel said, shifting closer on their log. “I’ll undo yours.”

Dean did so twice as quickly. Castiel’s shirt flared open as Dean pushed it, revealing those beautifully erect nipples he’d imagined not too long ago. Castiel was still working on Dean’s shirt – but as soon as it was open, he pressed his bare palm to Dean’s stomach, sweeping upward to touch every inch of his chest, feeling him breathe, thumbing over Dean’s nipples until they hardened completely.

“Oh,” Dean sighed, sinking into Castiel’s touch, resting his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder as Castiel explored him, hands under his shirt, hugging around his back, mapping the shape of his hips.

Dean bit his lip, eyes down as he reached – pulled back – then reached again, touching his fingers to Castiel’s semi-erection. It bulged against the cloth of Castiel’s brown trousers, and twitched when Dean squeezed. Flashes of heat filled Dean’s body as he unbuttoned Castiel’s pants, pushing the fabric apart to reveal his white underwear.

Castiel tugged on Dean’s body, trying to pull him somewhere. Dean gasped, “I’m slipping—”

Castiel laughed as they fell off the log and into the ferns, their bodies aligned in a bed of soft, fluffy fronds. Dean realised this had been Castiel’s intention, and he relaxed, grinning as Castiel leaned over him, bumping his nose – apologising – then kissing his eye, then his forehead... then his lips.

Dean lifted his chin, surging for a deeper kiss. “Hmmh!” he hummed in approval. Their lips separated, and Dean grinned. He kept grinning as Castiel sank down, rustling through the leaves as he got comfortable, wriggling on top of Dean until – _oh_ – their crotches aligned, and Castiel began to press down. Down. Down. He moved his hips – _only_ his hips – rhythmic and slow. It didn’t matter that they were still half-clothed; the pressure was enough to start a lightning storm in Dean’s gut, pleasure rushing in pulses.

“Oh shhh-hh-h,” Dean forced out, hands going weak, legs spreading as he relaxed. He whimpered, mouth opening as his body tensed up again, so _excited_ by the feeling of Castiel’s weight, rocking onto him.

Dean shuddered, pushing free a few breaths, eyes finally settling onto Castiel, curling his hands behind his lover’s head. That caught Castiel’s attention: he searched for Dean’s gaze, unable to find it. Dean pulled him closer, Castiel smiled, and his humping immediately settled to a slow _push_.

“Can you see me?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s warm fingers ran the outline of Dean’s jaw, thumb over his lips. “Enough to know you’re beautiful.”

Dean beamed, kissing Castiel’s cheek quickly. “You charmer.”

“I... I want to...?” Castiel snuggled close, hugging Dean with his whole body. Dean blinked a few times, wondering what they were doing – but then Castiel breathed in, holding Dean’s head with both hands so he could inhale his scent. He began with his hair, then kissed his ear, breathed past his neck... He took hold of Dean’s shirt collar, fingering the bow tie loose, then clutching the shirt fabric to his face to breathe it in.

“Mm...” Dean wanted Cas to go lower; he pushed him gently, and Castiel went where he was directed. Dean licked his lips, head lifting so he could look down. Both hands flew to his crotch, and he undid his suit pants, crumpled them down, then took hold of his erection. Ignoring the clench of shame in his belly, he lifted his hips, and let his cockhead touch to Castiel’s bare chest.

“Was that—?” Castiel looked down, but couldn’t see.

“I wanna rub on you,” Dean whispered. “Ih— Is that okay?”

Castiel was grinning as he turned his face back to Dean. Slowly, without replying, he lowered his chest to Dean’s erection, and Dean had to remove his hand. Castiel rubbed _himself_ on Dean, pushing onto him, sliding forward and back, forward and back, rolling Dean’s erection in the process. Dean lay and let it happen, shutting his eyes to cut out the sparks of random colour he saw, mouth open to let mewls and whispers of pleasure escape into the night.

All at once, Castiel surged upward, taking Dean’s jaw, then his lips under his own; they kissed deeply, hands on each other’s faces, breaths gushing hot through their noses as they breathed each other in, tasted one another, swapping lungfuls of air. The stench of the damp earth underneath them added a gorgeous, bitter note to their kisses, and Dean broke their connection a few times just to breathe deeply, enjoying the planet’s nighttime perfume, drifting in the glade from fallen flowers.

“Mm, Dean,” Castiel uttered, panting on Dean’s lips. “Ahuh—”

Dean could feel hot, thick liquid trailing across his abdomen, left there by Castiel’s erection as he let it move. Dean held onto Castiel’s back, guiding him to move again; together they started a fire, two bodies colliding, sliding, corruscating until the friction made a furious heat, their bodies searing, breaths nothing but vapour in the cooling night air.

Dean gazed into Castiel’s blank eyes, longing to make eye contact, but finding it impossible. Castiel’s attention was already locked to Dean’s face, but remained on his lips, or his nose.

“Can you look at me?” Dean asked, hurting inside because he had to ask.

“I am,” Castiel said in confusion.

Dean smiled. Cas just needed some direction. “Up a little. Just a bit.”

Castiel’s faded pupils rose by a fraction.

“Bit more.”

Dean relaxed, heart swelling with delight. At long last, they looked each other in the eye.

“Dean,” Castiel gasped. “Are your eyes green?”

Dean huffed in awe. “Yeah. Yeah, they are. I’m surprised you can see them at all, let alone in this light.”

“I can’t!” Castiel seemed ecstatic. “I can _sense_ them.”

“You can?” Dean raised his eyebrows, slowly lifting a thigh to hug Castiel’s ass.

“There’s—” Castiel turned his head, searching around him. “Colours. _Everywhere_. The frogs— Their noise sounds like— Like the rainbows on soap bubbles. Or little drifting stars, floating in the forest.”

Dean chuckled. “Feels good for you, huh.”

Castiel laughed – a deep chuckle, a sound of exhilaration – and he took hold of Dean’s face and _kissed_ him. First his upper lip. But then his full mouth, nosing and nuzzling and licking until Dean was flustered and breathless, shaking all over, whining, as he couldn’t speak to express how amazing this felt, how blissful this moment was to him, how close he was to climax.

“Cmmhs— Ah, _Cas_ —”

Castiel nodded, kissing him again. “Hm. Hmmmh—”

Dean gasped, and gasped, and gasped, thrusted into the soil by Castiel’s hips, head pillowed by a fern that seemed less and less tickly as pleasure distracted Dean away. He ceased to notice the forest, the moonlight gleaming past Castiel’s ear, the trills of the tree frogs, or the tweets of birds they’d woken from sleep. Dean’s world soon became only his heartbeat, his body singing in ecstasy, the puffs of Castiel’s breath, Castiel’s kisses, and his fierce attention. Now Cas knew where to look, he didn’t miss. They maintained full and complete eye contact as Dean’s climax swept up like an all-engulfing wave of heat, spilling from him in a shocking, wet spasm—

“AH!” Dean shouted, eyes tight shut, mouth wide open.

And then... slowly... the electricity began to settle, slowing to a throb as his heart slowed.

“Cas,” Dean shuddered, eyes half-open, a shivering hand clutching the dark hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck. “Mhhh...hh...”

He shut his eyes, needing to recover. He opened his mouth so Castiel could keep kissing him, which he did: over and over, deeply, and softly, and wetly, with every manner of kiss in between.

Dean smiled when Castiel lowered his head to breathe in his scent again. He wrenched air from behind Dean’s neck, then exhaled a blazing heat against his shoulder with a sigh of, “ _Ahhh_...”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped in shock; Castiel ejaculated without a sound, without warning; his seed spilled over Dean’s hip and into the dirt, leaving a hot stripe on Dean’s skin.

“Yeah,” Castiel muttered. “Ah... Sorry...”

“What?” Dean lifted his head. “Why are you sorry? ‘Cause it’s over? ‘Cause you got me all sticky?”

“Because wh—” Castiel gulped, still panting. “Because what I find most enthralling about your physical form is – not how you feel, or touch me, or speak, but – your scent. You smell so _good_ , Dean, I can’t bear it.”

Dean snickered, “Naw, Cas, don’t be sorry.” He cupped the back of Castiel’s head, shaking his head at Castiel embarrassed expression. “C’mere.” Guiding Cas close, Dean gave him a soft kiss, breathing out as they both turned their heads to fit better. Dean licked their lips apart, asking, “Did you like that? What we just did?”

Castiel grinning, nodding. “Yeah.”

Dean kissed him again. “So did I. You don’t need to be sorry. Sniff me all you want.”

A relieved breath escaped Castiel, and he hid his face against Dean’s temple. “Thank you.”

Dean shook his head, chuckling as he stroked Castiel’s hair, fingers combing through the locks. “You’re a sweetheart, you know that?”

“Well, I do now,” Castiel smiled. He pushed an affectionate kiss against Dean’s ear, then breathed out once more.

For a while, they just lay, hearts together, legs intertwined, clothes halfway-shed from their steaming forms. Dean swallowed a few times, feeling mild dehydration creeping up on him. But he stayed with Castiel, not wanting to break the peaceful silence, or ask to return inside. They were already sheltered by nature, by the canopy of leaves and the arched trunks of ancient trees. Birches and willows grew twisted together, the curious eyes in their wood drawn shut to give Dean and Cas their privacy.

But soon Dean felt he had to speak, so he only whispered: “How does Winchester-Örvar sound to you?”

Castiel lifted his head. “What?”

“Winchester-Örvar,” Dean said again, with a tiny shrug, chin pudge squishing as he rose on his elbows to watch Castiel’s face. “The Winchester-Örvar Family Bakery. It can be our legacy. The name will live on, even once we’re gone.”

Castiel’s expression remained blank for a moment, and Dean wondered if he himself had misunderstood somewhere down the line.

But then Castiel smiled, and it was a perfect, delighted smile, showing his gums, a wrinkle over the bridge of his nose, and lines around his blind eyes. A laugh of joy fell from his lips, and he nodded, giving Dean a kiss. “Winchester-Örvar Family Bakery,” he repeated, mesmerised. “All the best fruit pies in the Portland. In North America! In the _world_!”

“Well, I dunno about the _world_ ,” Dean countered. “Ain’t got enough good flour for that.”

“You know, there’s a flour mill not too far from here,” Castiel said slyly.

“Uh, yeah, I’m aware,” Dean scoffed. “Trying to contact the people inside that brickhouse of hell is how we first met.”

“I could buy it,” Castiel said. “ _We_ could buy it. And turn half of it into a big bakery. And then make _a lot_ of pies.”

“How many pies are we talking here?” Dean asked, teasing, since he didn’t really believe Cas was serious. “Twenty-five? Thirty?”

“Thirty thousand? Yes.” Castiel nodded. “It’s possible. You would get to travel, to introduce your product to new sellers. And I could come with you. I can’t see the world, but I would still love to explore it with a trusted guide, such as yourself.”

Dean tutted, settling back into the ferns. “Yeah. Right.”

“Yeah,” Castiel said, with a wholly different inflection. He hugged Dean’s middle. “I _am_ right. Really, Dean, what’s stopping us?”

Dean stared. “What?”

“ _What’s stopping us_?” Castiel repeated, insistently. “I’ve thought about it for a long time. The flour company is going under, they’ve become lax on their quality control just to match demand. But I could— _We_ could bring in product from other places. Horses. Carts. Even automobiles. You don’t need to get up at two-thirty in the morning, just to bake all day, every day. You won’t have to control a company by yourself. You could ride your horse, transporting flour.”

Dean stared even more, searching Castiel’s gaze but seeing only his own baffled expression peering back.

“Charlie enjoys running the business, you said,” Castiel said, giving Dean’s heart an encouraging pat. “Billie would rather boss people around than shoe horses. Donna likes to experiment with new flavours. Sam wants to be head baker.”

Only now did Dean’s mind begin to whirr. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the solution he’d been waiting to find. “Oh,” he breathed.

“We could hire baking staff,” Castiel said, sitting up. Dean sat up too, pulling his shirt back onto his bare shoulders. “We’d pay women who want to work. I could be your major investor. Co-owner. And you can do whatever calls to you most. Fetch flour, and provide new recipes, making sure everyone is doing it right, and—”

“Hell yes,” Dean said, grinning now. He grabbed Castiel’s hands, both of them, and kissed him on the lips. When Dean pulled back, he breathed out in a sigh of relief. He grinned, seeing Castiel’s stunned expression. “Hell _yes_ , Cas. Let’s do it. Winchester-Örvar Family Bakery. Start small, get bigger.”

“It’ll... be like our baby.”

Dean laughed. “The first of many?”

Castiel ducked his head, laughing out a shy noise. “Yes.”

Dean helped Castiel to his feet, and did his buttons up for him. Castiel stood still as Dean clothed him, eyes turned to Dean but not seeing him clearly. Dean didn’t miss the fact that Castiel breathed in deeply, over and over, enjoying the smell of Dean – not caring, or maybe even _enjoying_ the fact he was sweaty and dirty now.

“You smell like happiness,” Castiel murmured, as Dean helped him tidy up his hair, then removing a twig from his own.

“My happiness, or yours?” Dean asked.

Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, and pressed his head to Dean’s cheek. Kissing his ear once, he answered, “You know which.”

Dean found himself smiling. It was true. He did know. Slipping a hand into Castiel’s, they turned from the glade, carefully stepping over the log they’d sat on. “Feet up, Cas! Whoops. There you go.”

“See,” Castiel said smugly. “You could lead me around the world and I wouldn’t trip over _any_ thing.”

Dean hummed a satisfied note. “Wanna bet?”

“Absolutely.”

Cas was right: both his and Dean’s bodies billowed with the fragrant incense of joy, and the scents clung to them equally. The colours that shone on their skin were perfectly in harmony with the flowers all around, their perfumes as glorious as springtime blossom, and their smiles as bright as the moon.

They wandered back to the path, but Dean led them on, rather than back the way they’d come. There was no real reason for these peaceful moments to come to an end yet.

They had the whole night ahead of them.

And after that? They had all their lives ahead, too.

**— ♦ —  
** _Með leið örvar, geturðu fundið mikla ást þína._  
_By means of arrows, may you find your great love._  
— ♦ — 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥ [A new post explaining ways you can support me, both as a writer and a person!!](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/174914543205/how-to-make-sure-elmiealmaasi-writes-forever)  
> ♥ And [this 20+ minute survey for readers of my fics](http://bit.ly/long-almaasi-survey-2018) is still open if you have time! (The results are helping me SO MUCH so far~)  
> ♥ [Reblog the art?](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/174933006085/a-half-baked-donut-hit-the-wall-tiles-with-a)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope this fic put a smile on your face at least once~!  
> Elmie x


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